Archive for the ‘Al Jolson’ Category

Sweet Bela Lugosi’s backhair! It seems like I haven’t spoken to you in yurts and yurts. It took me literally ages to shake those goddam Grapes of Wrath – by the way, I think they MIGHT have actually been associated with that band you mentioned, does the name “Chris ‘Mister’ Hooper” mean anything to you?

I shook the group of mammary-obsessed maniacs in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, and took refuge in a homeless shelter, if it was good enough for Coleslaw, it was good enough for me. It did smell vaguely of urine, but to be quite honest, it could have been me: those Grapes of Wraths were savages, man, I tell you: and they made me a savage to boot. It wasn’t pretty.

The word twerp originally meant someone who bit bubbles of flatulence in bathtubs: isn’t that a bizarrely exact description?

Where was I?

Good lord, I haven’t even gotten to the point yet. Verbosity is not an admirable trait, Hoopla, don’t let anyone tell you different. Christ: The point: In the shelter I met a man who I thought at first to be an Al Jolson impersonator, but it turns out there was a much more simple explanation: he was simply covered from head to toe in the ashes of burned corpses.

But, let’s be perfectly honest, my good Baron, who hasn’t that happened to? On occasion?

The man’s name was Brian Jolson (it turns out he was actually Al Jolson’s grandson, but it was just a “coincidence”), he was part of a cult, or sect, or religion called the Aghori, who worship Shiva, and consider everything holy, including eating corpses, copulating with corpses, playing Five Card Stud with corpses, and swimming in shit. I don’t mind the Five Card Stud part, to be perfectly honest.

Brian cruises around looking for women on their – well, their time if you . . . get me . . . he performes tantric yoga with the women, which he describes as a sacred Aghori rite entitled “Surfing The Crimson Wave”. That’s the English phrasing for it anyway, that’s what Brian tells me. He hasn’t had much luck since I’ve been with him. Well, if you consider finding an abandoned 1978 Pinto near some railroad tracks “luck”, then he has some luck . . . but not in the area he would probably prefer.

Anyway, where was I? Right.

Money.

I need you to wire me some money, so I can get the Christ away from this freak, he’s eyeing me up rather strangely. I was well fed when with the Grapes of Wrath. Maybe too well fed.